


Prevail

by lordy_lou



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: 2013, AU, Christmas/Holiday Fic, F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordy_lou/pseuds/lordy_lou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A waitress meets a strange man at 1:30am on Christmas morning.  He spills coffee on her, because he's smooth like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prevail

**Author's Note:**

> for: lumiereandpenumbra.  prompt was: “diner christmas dinner waitress belle”
> 
> set in: some strange, lazy AU where belle is a waitress and while she’s not called lacey there are some strong lacey-ish elements to be found here.   gold is gold is gold.  sorry if the formatting’s strange—i’m copy/pasting this from a word document. 
> 
> anyways.  this is for lumiereandpenumbra, whose patience should be highly lauded b/c she’s had to put up with my late self as a secret santa.

Diners, as a policy, are depressing around Christmas: lonely customers sighing and staring out of the fake-frosted windows, wishing for holiday joys of their own and smothering their pains with cheap food and cheaper cigarettes.  The middle-aged man with a scarf and cane who entered Granny’s at half-past one in the morning on Christmas Day was no exception.  He sat in the booth nearest to the door without so much as a by-your-leave from the pretty young waitress, and sighed as he propped his lame leg on the opposite seat.

Bev ‘Granny’ Lucas, the eponymous owner of the diner, raised an eyebrow.  The waitress frowned.

“Granny,” she said.  The man began to massage his leg.  “Have I ever told you that I hate this shift?”

Granny pursed her lips.  “The night shift?  Or the Christmas shift?”

“The second.”  The younger woman grabbed a pot of coffee from the warmer and a mug, and placed them on a tray.

“It’s not a happy time,” Granny said.  “Not for him, apparently.”

The waitress _hmm_ ed in agreement, and walked towards the booth, still holding the tray.  The man wasn’t exactly handsome, she decided—a compact man, and cranky, too, judging from his expletive-laced muttering. 

“Excuse me, sir?” the waitress said, pasting on her best smile.  The man looked up, his eyes startlingly large.  “How can I help you?”

The man gave a rictus of a grin.  “Got a gun?”

Shocked, the waitress dropped the tray, and then shrieked as the hot coffee splashed over her bare legs.  The man swore and pushed himself out of his seat with alarming speed, tearing the scarf from his neck and attempting to wipe the coffee from her legs.  The waitress shrieked even more at the touch, and scuttled backwards until she bumped into a table and fell.

“I’m so sorry!” the man cried out, still kneeling on the wet tile.  “It was only a joke—I’m so sorry you’ve been hurt, I’m sorry—“

“Just stop!” the waitress said.  “Just—don’t touch me!  Just…let it be.”  She picked herself up.  “It’s fine.”

“I am _so sor_ —”

A loud whistle echoed through the diner.  Both the waitress and the man looked at Granny, tapping her foot and frowning. 

“Belle?”

The waitress nodded, eyes wide.  Her hands were shaking.

“Go get cleaned up.  I’ve got this.”  The waitress—Belle—nodded again, and stumbled off to the restroom.  Granny walked towards the man, and offered her hand.  He grimaced and took a hold, levering himself back into the booth. 

“Thanks,” he said, rubbing his leg.

“No thanks necessary,” Granny replied.  Her mouth was set in a grim line.  “Now, what exactly did you say in order to upset my girl?”

“It…it was a quip.”  The man smirked, and it was weak and bloodless.  “Transferring my mood to the unsuspecting waitress, I suppose.”

“Well, don’t,” Granny said.  “She’s a good girl, and if you’re here just so you can make someone else miserable then you’ll need to leave.”

The man shook his head.  “That won’t be necessary,” he sighed.  “I’m just here for some tea.”

“At one-thirty in the morning?” 

The man looked up at her, and sneered.  “Could I have that tea, please?”

Granny snorted.  “When Belle’s back,” she said, and walked to the rear room to grab a mop. She meandered back to to the man’s booth and began to clean the mess.

“Isn’t that her job?” he asked.  Granny shrugged, and kept mopping.  From the corner of her eye, she watched Belle edge out from the restroom, her legs now dry.

“Not tonight,” she said.  “Christmas.”

“And yet,” he said, his sickly grin returned to his face, “you’re still making her get the tea.”  His long fingers traced over the cheap silverware.  “Bit of a contradiction.”

“Not at all,” Granny said.  “She’s no great shakes at cleaning, but she can make a damn good drink.”  She stopped mopping, and squinted at the damp tile.  “Should hire her on as a cook, but she—well.”  The floor was clean enough for now. “Belle?”

The sound of something dropping, and a soft curse—then: “Yes, Granny?”

“Quit makin’ a mess over there and get this man some tea, would you?”

“What type?”

Granny looked at the man, and he stared back.         

“English breakfast,” she said.

The man rolled his eyes, then nodded.  Granny didn’t bother to hold back a smirk.

“Of course, Granny,” Belle called.  “Just a minute, sir.  Would you like any pie, or scones, or—well, I guess Granny makes a pretty mean lasagna, if you’re in the mood for that—right.”  Granny heard Belle exhale and then collect herself.  “Anything with your tea?”

The man raised his eyebrows.  “Nothing, thank you.”

“Right,” Belle said. 

Granny shook her head, and returned the mop to the rear room.  When she entered the dining room, Belle was cautiously pouring tea into a mug in front of the man, the hazy fingers of steam rising around her face and throat.  The man was—oh, shit.

The man was looking at Belle like just about every other man who entered did: like she was some kind of warm, welcoming prey, and he was a starving wolf, cold and harrowed and bone-ridden.  Granny grit her teeth, and Belle—Belle _smiled_. 

It wasn’t her usual smile, her smile for men who looked like wolves, the smile Granny knew from shared stories and drunken confessions to be a snarl, a beast of a grin to hide something broken.  It wasn’t her rare, beaming, scrunched-face smile, either—it was a weak culling of the expression, but still with a hint of that strange beauty that made men stop and hunger.  Her face was directed towards the window.

“It’s snowing,” Belle said, putting the mug down.  “That’s _lovely_.”

Fat flakes drifted through the outside air with insulting laziness.  Granny expected the man to scoff—lord knew _she_ was about to, because the young woman got distracted by the strangest things—but instead, he made a soft hum of agreement.  Belle didn’t notice, though, and kept looking out the window.

“Have you not seen snow before?” the man asked.  Belle flinched back from the table, and the man put a cautionary hand over the top of his mug. 

“I have,” she replied.  “It was never common where I grew up, though.”  The spellbound smile had faded from her face, only to be replaced with a determined jut of the chin.  “Is the tea to your liking, sir?”

The man lifted his hand and took a sip.  “Quite, thank you,” he said.  “And—if I may—I would like a slice of pie, as you suggested earlier.“  He popped his _t_ ’s with explosive, halting puffs of air.  It was disconcerting.

“Of course, sir,” Belle said.  “Type?”

“Pumpkin.”  He frowned.  “It is Christmas, I suppose.”

Belle nodded, and ducked off towards the front.  Granny watched, bemused, as the young woman fiddled with the pies under the florescent-lit counter, her skin almost as pale as the streets outside.

“You okay, Belle?” Granny asked, her voice soft.  “He—“

“I’m fine, Granny,” Belle said.  Her throat was jumping.  “Not too fond of Christmas, that’s all.”

“If you say so,” Granny replied.  “I’ll be right here if you need anything.  Keep an eye on you.”

The younger woman smiled, shook her head.  “I’m only bringing him pie.”

Granny shrugged, and Belle successfully freed a slice of pumpkin pie and set it on a small plate.  As she carried to the table, the man watched every swing of the hips, every shake of the head. 

 “Here you go, sir,” Belle said, placing the pie in front of him.  “It’s no Christmas dinner, but our pie’s pretty good.”

The man didn’t even look at the pie.  “Thank you, Miss…?”  Belle pointed to her nametag, and the man shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “It’s only proper to call you by your last name.”

“Not if I don’t like it,” Belle replied, and her whiplash grin took root in her face.  The man frowned.

“Miss Belle, then,” he said.  “Well, _Miss Belle_ , if you’d be so kind to keep my tea filled tonight—no, this morning—it would be much appreciated.  I may be in here for quite a bit.”  He tapped his fingers against the rim of his mug, and Belle tilted her head in polite question.  “Family spat.  I lost.”

“Family arguments are really the point of the holidays,” Belle said dryly.  “Can’t imagine Christmas without them.”

The man smiled at her, all soft-edged and kind and utterly fake.  “Of course not.”

Belle nodded, and turned away from the man. 

“Miss Belle,” the man said.  Belle looked back to him—he was still rather unattractive, all compact and oily-tongued and hooded eyes.            

“Miss Belle,” he continued.  “If you wouldn’t mind, would you feel like sitting and speaking with me?  I can’t say I relish the thought of spending Christmas morning by myself.”

“And what makes you think I’d be any good as a conversation partner?” Belle asked, cocking one hip. 

“Call it intuition.”

“And what if I don’t want to talk to you?”

“Then you certainly don’t have to,” the man said, and the line of his shoulders seemed to stiffen.  “I’m not in the habit of making women do things they’d rather not.”

Belle raised her eyebrows.  “And what if my boss—“ she jerked her thumb over her shoulder towards Granny, who was still watching the two, “—doesn’t let me?  I’m on the clock.”

The man shrugged, still tense.  “I only said I don’t _relish_ the thought of spending Christmas morning by myself.”  His fingers tapped against the rim of his mug again.  “I never said I _couldn’t_.”

Belle glanced back towards Granny (who made a sort of “ _your choice, girlie,”_ gesture) and then sat down in front of the man.  She tossed back her auburn hair, and stared defiantly at him.  He looked unsettlingly pleased.

“What,” she began, “do you propose we speak about?”

“Well,” he said.  “Holiday topics—or at least, the ones I heard about in the past day, with my family—seem to revolve around daddy issues, trust issues, or just sheer, bleeding idiocy.”  He rolled his eyes.  “Take your pick.”

“No daddy issues, thank you,” she said.  “Idiocy gets boring after a while, as do trust issues.”

“Then I’m fresh out of ideas, Miss Belle.”

“Holiday dinners, then,” Belle said.  “Lamb, ham, or beef?”

“Lamb, most certainly.  You?”

“Beef tenderloin, but I generally can’t afford it.  Favorite dessert.”

“Fruitcake.”

“Really?” Belle said.  “I don’t find many people who like it.”

The man nodded.  “They haven’t had true fruitcake, then.”

“Of course.”

 “Favorite song?”

 “For Christmas?  _Silent Night.”_

“Not _Silver Bells_?  Or _Christmas Bells_?” he asked, smiling.  Belle shook her head.

 “Just because it’s my name doesn’t mean I like it.”

The man nodded again.  “Is your name just Belle, or is it short for anything?”

 “Just Belle,” she said, with an air of finality.  The man slid his fingers down the handle of his mug.

 Belle looked out the window, a drifting smile fighting its way onto her face.  The man followed her gaze, and watched the indolent snow accumulating on the dark street.  Then he looked at her—her left arm was curled loosely around her slim waist, and her right elbow was on the table, propping up her head.  Her eyes—lord, he thought.  Her eyes were unspeakable, and far away.

“It is lovely,” he said, softly.  “Very lovely.”

 Belle nodded.  “Never really saw much snow as a child.”  Her voice seemed to be miles from her.

“Where’d you grow up?”

 “Australia,” she said, and shivered.  Her eyes turned from the view to him, and something behind her gaze grew shuttered.  “Not a happy place, for me.” 

 “Childhood often isn’t, I’ve found,” the man said.  Belle shook her head, gave a bestial grin that nearly sent the man reeling. 

 “Of course not.  But I said I’d rather not talk about daddy issues.”  Then her snarl softened, and she pursed her lips.

“All right,” the man said.  Both of her arms wrapped around her waist.  The man took a sip of his tea, then reached for his wallet and pulled out a coin that flashed like mercury in the bright lights of the diner.  Belle looked at it morosely.

 “I hope that’s not my tip,” she said.  The man smiled, and shook his head.

“Watch.” 

 With a quick twist of his long fingers, the coin disappeared.  Belle felt a slight pressure—a quick heat, not searing but uncomfortable nonetheless—in her right hand.  She looked up at the man, who grinned.

“Open your hand,” the man said.

 Belle did as he said, and the coin shone in her right palm.  Her breath stuttered in her chest. 

“How—“ she began.  The man waggled a finger, his grin even wider.

“It’s just a little Christmas magic,” he said.  “And I can’t tell you how it’s done.”

Belle smiled, wide and beaming and beautiful.

 “What’s your favorite type of tea?”




 It wasn’t until around six in the morning that Belle grew tired, and by that time a few of the five o’clock regulars had already come and gone, served by Granny while Belle and the man chatted about anything and everything.

 “—and really, I didn’t have much choice at that point.  Either leave my daughter-in-law’s house, or most likely end up arrested for homicide before the night was out,” the man said, drinking from a fresh mug of tea.  “I’m starting to believe I made the right decision.”

Belle curled her fingers around her own mug.  “That’s possibly the most convoluted family tree I’ve ever heard of.”  She took a sip, relishing the warmth.  “Though I can’t say I blame your daughter-in-law much.”

“Oh no,” he said, “I’m quite fond of her, actually.”

“So it’s—what, her parents?”

“Insufferable, self-centered idiots.”

 “Ah,” she laughed.  “And _you_ are entirely blameless.”

“Of course,” he said.  “Entirely.”  Then he winked at her.

Belle laughed again, until the laugh turned into a yawn.  Smiling, the man took another sip, and then shook his sleeve back from his watch. 

He frowned, and carefully placed his tea on the table.

“What’s wrong?” Belle asked, her mouth halfway covered from her yawn.

 “It’s half-past six,” he said.  “I suppose I’d better make my way back.”    

Belle bit her lip.  “So early?”

The man began to stand.  “If my grandson’s anything like my son, then he’ll be waking up obscenely early in order to open gifts.” He reached for his cane, and shrugged on his coat.  “I need to be there for that, at least.”

Belle quickly shuffled out of the booth, grabbing her mug of tea.  Granny was still at the counter, she realized guiltily—Ruby would be coming in to take over the day shift soon enough, but the older woman looked like she was drooping where she stood. 

 “Oh, _damn,_ ” she said.

“What?” the man asked.  Belle gestured towards Granny, and the man’s face softened. 

“Right,” he said.  “We have been here for a bit, I suppose.”

“Yes, and she’s done all the work—oh, _damn.”_   She began to walk towards the woman, but was paused by a hand on her upper arm.

“Miss Belle,” the man said, as she slowly turned around.  “It’s fine.  How much do I owe?  Twenty dollars?”

“If that,” Belle said, shooting a glance at the man’s hand.  It was large and firm and warm, and Belle didn’t feel the usual, immediate urge to hit and snarl and scratch.  “No, nine dollars at most, because there are free refills on the tea…” 

She trailed off as the hand left her arm, and the man dragged out a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the table.

“No,” she began, “that’s far too much.  Please.”

The man shook his head.  “I’ve had lovely company, some very nice pie, and the best tea that I can recall in recent memory.”  He put his wallet back in his pocket, the money still on the table.  “This is far too little.”  His mouth was set in a firm line.  “Anyways, I spilled coffee on you, so count it as worker’s comp, or something along those lines.”

Belle took a breath.  The man raised his eyebrows, and made his way the door.  He began to reach for the handle, when Belle called after him.

“It’s French,” she said, slowly walking towards him.  “My last name, that is.”

The man smiled.  “Miss Belle French,” he said, savoring the words. He sketched the figure of a bow with trilling fingers.  “Mr. Gold, at your service.”

She kept walking, and he turned to her as she stopped in front of his chest, too close—too familiar.  Belle clenched her hands to stop the shaking, the rim of her mug pressing into her fingers.

“And is there a first name to go with that, Mr. _Gold_?” she asked. 

He smiled, and bent his head down, his mouth next to her ear.

“It took me an entire conversation to get your full name, Miss _Belle French_ ,” he whispered.  Gold’s lips brushed over the shell of her ear, and Belle leaned closer to him despite herself.  “I won’t give myself up so easily.”

Then, as easy as breathing, he drew his face back and took her empty hand.  Gold rubbed a broad thumb over her knuckles, then raised her hand to his mouth and pressed a soft, dry kiss against her pale fingers.

“Never fear,” he said, looking her in the eyes.  “I am quite certain you’ll have a chance to find it out.”  Then he grinned—the same smug grin he gave as when the coin disappeared—turned, and walked out into the thick snow.

Belle dropped her mug and swore. 

She smiled as she cleaned up the shards.





End file.
